


The Storm and The Sabre

by Lusi



Category: League of Legends
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:00:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26179885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lusi/pseuds/Lusi
Summary: Tempted with an offer she can hardly refuse, Katarina Du Couteau sets out to steal the treasure on the ship that just anchored in Bilgewater Bay. However, the Rogue Admiral of unknown origins is prepared and ready to meet swift daggers with his own steady blade. Based on Riot Games' official artwork "The Storm and The Sabre by Brian Francis Sword".
Relationships: Katarina Du Couteau/Garen Crownguard
Comments: 7
Kudos: 48





	1. Three Hundred Thousand

**The Storm and The Sabre**

**by B. F. Sword**

**Chapter One: Three Hundred Thousand**

If you had the coin, almost anything could be purchased there. Such were the words any stranger would have heard upon reaching the Butcher’s Bridge in the city port of Bilgewater. Stolen goods, stolen food, stolen people – the main harbor existed to satisfy everyone’s needs. From the piers to the slums, from the traveling ships to the resident areas, from the Slaughter Docks to the Buhru Temple… life on the waters was as regular as on the inlands of Valoran, the major continent of Runeterra. While other civilizations knew their ancestry and added bricks to the preexisting rocks that acted as the foundations of their cities, Bilgewater’s ancient architecture was of unknown origins. The growing population of the city port added to the ancient buildings whatever was needed and the materials used could have been repurposed masonry or pieces of shipwreck; as long as it did its job, nobody would be anything less than content.

The bustling taverns of Bilgewater were well renowned for their rum as well as their infinite sources – sea dogs from all over Runeterra stopped in Bilgewater. From the gossips of Demacian nobles to tactical Noxian plans, there was always information worth gathering for the next trade route plundering.

Hopping from the roof of Myron’s Murderhole and landing silently on her feet next to the back entrance of the tavern, Katarina Du Couteau readjusted her leather hat and eyepatch on her left eye before going inside, the old and ever so greasy Myron ignoring her altogether as he was busy serving black rum and other strong beverages such as Graggy Ice to the crowd that slumped on his bar and wobbly tables.

Perched on the nearest stool available, the raven-haired woman leaned against the bar, ordering a full bottle of black rum for herself.

“Ain’t that a lot for you lil’ lassie,” a muscly, brown-haired man asked her as he plopped down next to her. Pushing his drink next to hers with one gloved hand while the other reached for the cigar between his lips, the man eyed her corseted chest plate, which revealed more than it covered.

“It’s nowhere near enough if I have to listen to your corny lines all night,” Katarina replied, chugging her glass of rum and wiping her mouth with her bare wrist. It was too hot in Myron’s Murderhole, but her twin blades were strapped to her tiny leather jacket, and she wasn’t about to let her guard down.

“I’m not that bad, but I can be,” the cocky, bearded man went on, scooching his stool towards hers and resting his left gloved hand on the bar top for support.

In a flash, one of the daggers that Katarina kept in the inside of her jacket nestled itself between his fingers, pinning the glove against the wooden top, and saving his fingers by less than an inch.

The man next to her acted calm and composed, but the bead of sweat on his forehead she didn’t miss. Smirking, she removed the dagger, and took a more elegant sip from her glass of rum.

“Daggers as fine as you, lil’ lassie,” he commented dryly. “Or do you prefer Lady Du Couteau?”

She didn’t even try to contain her eyeroll. “Clap, clap, clap,” she replied, unamused. “And here I thought Bilgewater was the city of new beginnings.”

“Hey, I’m not judging,” the man added before downing his Graggy Ice. “Damn, this Freljord beer is the bomb. The name’s Graves by the way. Malcolm Graves.”

The dark-haired woman didn’t even bother looking at him while she enjoyed her poison. “Did I ask for your name?”

Never one to give up easily, Graves adjusted his worn-out, maroon cape around his shoulders and leaned his head closer to hers. “Watcha here for, Du Couteau? I see no targets for you in this shit hole. Doesn’t Missy Fortune know where to send her assassins anymore?”

At the mention of Captain Fortune, the aspiring ruler of Bilgewater, Katarina’s green eye darkened. “I never worked for Sarah Fortune,” she replied in a monotone. “And I never will.”

Graves seemed all too pleased by her answer, and she bit back her tongue to avoid more confusion and a possible loss of control on her part. She couldn’t deny that Sarah Fortune had helped her get back on her tracks as soon as she arrived in Bilgewater five years ago, leaving the Empire of Noxus and its High Command once and for all. She had arrived with only a few goods that were worth selling for a couple silver serpents and one golden kraken; without Miss Fortune, she would have stayed on the streets. The Captain of The Syren was the undiscussed ruler of Bilgewater in terms of facts, although her authority was often being challenged by those who were still loyal to the former ruler, the so-called “reaver king”. Sarah Fortune didn’t keep it a secret that she wanted the heads of all the traitors out in the slums, but none of those was ever severed by Katarina.

“Well, I got something for ya, if you’re here to make some golden krakens,” Graves interrupted her thoughts, assuming a less obnoxious demeanor.

“Why would you share?” she butted back, narrowing her eye. “I know how to earn my own coin.”

With a glance at her lower back and a puff of smoke, he replied, “I don’t doubt it, lassie.”

Unsheathing one of her blades and pressing the end of it under his chin, she was ready to slice his throat and cut his tongue out with the same blade. Her nostrils flared and her red lips slightly parted as she breathed out. “Crass,” she hissed.

Graves held his hands up in a defensive manner while the others around them went on with their own businesses. Tavern brawls and fights were not uncommon, even though they rarely led to bloodshed. A hand slipped between them, placing a blue card on the counter, right next to Katarina’s glass. They both glanced to the side, where another man stood with half his face covered by a thick hat. His appearance was more polished than Graves, and his long brown coat embroidered with gold made him look of like someone of a higher social rank.

“If you’ll kindly release my friend Malcolm here and take a look at my offer,” he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper.

Slowly dropping her weapon, Katarina kept glancing back and forth between the two bearded males, just to be sure they weren’t planning on robbing her. Thievery was everyone’s specialty in Bilgewater and having grown up with a thief didn’t make her immune to distraction. Her hand lifted the blue card, and she briefly looked at what had been written on it. Her right eye almost widened, but she cleared her throat, lifting an eyebrow to pretend she was not impressed.

Three hundred thousand golden krakens.

“What do you think?” the stranger asked, revealing his emerald eyes to her.

“Who are you?”

“The name’s Tobias Felix Foxtrot,” he answered promptly. “T.F. works too.”

At that, Graves rolled his eyes.

Sheathing her blade and crossing her arms over her chest, Katarina pursed her lips. She wasn’t convinced. “What kind of job requires that amount of money?”

Taking his hat off, the brown-haired man who called himself T.F. bowed his head. “If you’ll kindly follow. This shouldn’t be discussed here.”

It wasn’t long until the trio left Myron’s Murderhole, only to find themselves walking down the dampened streets of Bilgewater Bay, in the direction of the Butcher’s Bridge and the main harbor. It was late at night, and most activities took place around the taverns of Rat Town and the Black Market Grottos. The docks were the least crowded place at that time, and most of all, it was where T.F. believed his next bounty to be.

“Over there,” he pointed in the distance, between Miss Fortune’s Syren and the fleet that was about to leave for the nightly sea monster hunt. “That ship over there arrived a few hours ago. I hear they’re still discussing the permission to enter the harbor. Where it comes from, nobody knows,” he explained. “But Graves and I overheard some sea hunters talking. They say it’s a former Demacian ship, now turned into a pirate vessel.”

Katarina took a step back to glare at the two men who towered over her. She took another glance at the distant ship and shook her head. “Let me get this straight,” she scolded the two as if they were boys, “you are offering me a ridiculous amount of money that neither of you can pay for, what, exactly? Killing the unknown captain? Stealing the non-Demacian ship? You’re both good at that, judging by the looks of you. A drunkard hiding a big gun under his cape and,” she frowned at T.F. and went on, “what are you? A fortune-teller? A gambler?”

Graves checked under his cape, trying to hide his disbelief. Nobody ever noticed his double barrel Destiny.

“Look,” T.F. said in an aggravated tone, “Three hundred thousand golden krakens are the estimated value of everything on that ship. And I didn’t use any crystal ball for that,” he growled at her. “Before the arrival of these motherfuckers, five major sea trade routes were plundered and they were all Piltoveran and Demacian traders. So, there are at least three hundred fucking golden krakens on that ship,” he concluded, a bit of spit landing on his shirt as he spoke.

With a sneer, Katarina immediately countered. “And you want none of that, huh?”

“I want the rest. I want what was already on the ship,” T.F. admitted proudly, leaning back and shoving his hands in the pockets of his coat.

The former Noxian nodded, smiling faintly. “I was right then,” she whispered. “You _are_ a gambler. There could be nothing else on that ship.”

Tobias tipped his hat. “It is not gambling if you can’t lose.”

*******

“It is not gambling if you can’t lose.”

A chirping sound dropped from the dark skies of Bilgewater, the soft cry lost on the trio lost in their banter at the bay. Large, deep blue wings flapped as the fully grown, azurite eagle danced its way down the towering cliff that overlooked the main harbor. One of its feathers was lost in the wind, twirling its way down at the feet of the scout that sat on the edge of the cliff. The woman caught it midway, toying with it and staring at the soft burgundy hues that mixed with the Demacian blue that was the eagle’s color. When the creature landed behind her, resting its plated chest against her back as a greeting, she smiled faintly, her eyes never leaving the three figures that seemed to be walking away.

“Valor,” she called.

The eagle shrieked at her, and she removed the metallic glove that protected her right hand. Valor used her right forearm as her perch whenever they walked through unknown territory, and his talons could sever any limb with just a squeeze. She took a worn-out diary out of the messenger bag she carried, along with a carbon pencil.

_Bilgewater Bay, Night One._

_Main routes status: deserted._

_Night activities: Slaughter Docks. Sea monster meat._

_Carving Bays yet to be found. Potentially heavy with Golden Krakens._

_Local superstition: Buhru Temple._

_Threats—_

She glanced at the trio fading in the dark alleys of the bay. _One assassin and two thieves,_ she wrote down.

 _Quinn and Valor,_ she signed before tearing the page from her journal and rolling the piece of paper. She then secured it inside Valor’s silver chest plate. “Chotnya,” she ordered him in Ancient Demacian.

Valor immediately took flight, the strong, fast motion of his wings ruffling Quinn’s unnatural blonde hair and she readjusted the spiked headband that kept in place the braids framing her face. She held her tangerine sash close to her neck, watching as her friend flew back to their admiral’s ship, The Crowned Deceit. She pushed her long, copper bangs away, and stood up. Turning around, she almost slipped and fell off the cliff as she jumped out of surprise. In front of her, the woman she had been observing until a few moments ago was twirling a small dagger between her fingers, her ferocious glare directed at her.

Katarina’s puckered lips parted. “Think you’re so sneaky?”

Regaining her composure, Quinn patted her side, looking for her crossbow. It wasn’t there.

“Looking for this?” the dark-haired woman asked, waving the weapon at her before tossing it over the cliff.

Quinn let out an echoing _“No!”_ as she watched it scratch down the rocks and plunge into the dark and dirty waters of Bilgewater Bay. “You bastard,” she hissed at the woman who was now smiling.

“I know you were alerting your little friends on the ship,” Katarina commented dryly. “We hear all kinds of feathered animals around here, but eagles?” She shook her head. “You should’ve been quieter. Where are you from?”

Quinn crossed her arms over her chest, not intimidated in the least at the sight of her daggers. “You’ll get nothing from me,” she answered.

Katarina rolled her eyes. “Fair.”

Quinn exhaled, closing her eyes for a second. Before she could even think of her next move to get herself out of this situation, she felt a sharp pain in her back and her face was smashed against the ground and her ears were ringing. She felt blood run down her nose and fill her mouth. She coughed and spit, groaning in discomfort. She forced her eyes open, glaring at the woman who had blinked on top of her back and was pressing her spiked boot against her upper back while tugging on her ponytail. Quinn felt as if her neck was about to snap.

“Fuck you,” she breathed out.

Katarina swung her long hair over her right shoulder and pressed her dagger against the woman’s jugular. “I will ask it one more time. Where are you from?”

Quinn’s eyes bore into hers, noting how the eyepatch on Katarina’s left eye had slightly moved. Her left eye didn’t seem to be injured.

The staring wasn’t lost on Katarina. Her face suddenly darkened and the blade that was pressed against Quinn’s neck suddenly found its path into her left eye, eliciting a loud, agonizing cry from the blonde. Blood spilled all over the ground and Katarina removed her dagger just as quick as her stab. She wiped it on Quinn’s shoulder before sheathing it against her thigh. The scout’s shrieks and sobs echoed down the bay, but Katarina wasn’t worried. The victims of MacGregan’s Killhouse at the Slaughter Docks were far louder than the woman who had just lost an eye and Bilgewater surely wasn’t known for its law enforcement.

“Try shooting without a bow and eye,” she spat, pressing her boot against Quinn’s back ever harder.

With one last push to make sure the woman spit out all the blood and dirt that had collected in her mouth, Katarina walked away in silence, pleased with herself but not with the results of her interrogations. If anything, this would send the alarm bells ringing on the unknown ship, which was both good and bad. On one side, they would be more guarded when it came to their loot but on the other side, they might decide to seek revenge for their crewmember and get caught in the distraction.

Katarina rolled her shoulders on her way back to Myron’s Murderhole. She had decided to give the benefit of the doubt to the odd duo she had met earlier. It had been a while since she had to face any challenge that could result in a bloodshed—too long, even. The hanging sign of the tavern dangled a bit with the chilly wind that blew that night and for a moment, she glanced at the open window on the second floor of the tavern. It was where she lived, where she had been living since she left Sarah Fortune’s old lair.

She reached for her eyepatch, tugging on it and revealing her perfectly fine eye, if not for the scar that marked it. Throwing it away, she leapt on the roof of the tavern, crawling her way inside the window. The last thing she wanted was to enter the foul place and climb the stairs when it was still crowded. Katarina locked the door of her small bedroom and threw her hat on the floor. Her emerald eyes rested on her chamber pot and she sighed. Emptying it out the window, she threw it near the lonely chair where her other clothes were discarded.

She kicked her boots away, landing on her small bed with a loud thud. Katarina rested her arm on her forehead, and she sighed deeply. She stretched her other arm in front of her, the small, embroidered crest on her glove sending shivers down her spine. The iron skull made of two symmetrical axes sewed on crimson leather, the memory of who she was and where she came from—after five years she still wasn’t sure she could let go.

Katarina didn’t know when she fell asleep, but when she reopened her eyes, the scorching heat felt like it was setting fire to her bedroom. She was sweating, she realized as she wiped her forehead, black droplets of water tainting her forearm.

“Crap,” she muttered. The temporary dye that camouflaged her hair was coming off. Rushing to the lavatory corner where she kept a few buckets of clean water, she washed her face, breathing heavily. It had to be noon for the day to be that hot already. She had slept in and that was not good for business.

Catching a glimpse of her reflection in the broken mirror she kept on the table next to the window, she thought she looked older than she was. Faint lines marked her forehead, and her eyes were baggy. With dirty nails, she traced the scar over her left eye and remembered she had gotten rid of her eyepatch. She adjusted her messy hair so that it would cover her left eye, and secured the hairstyle with a hairpin and her leather hat.

A loud knock on the door interrupted her thoughts and without permission, a bulky male with more hairs than teeth walked in. He was bald and retched of dark rum, his bare upper body dressed by the many tattoos he had. It was the owner, Myron.

“Du Couteau,” he greeted.

“Rent isn’t due,” she bit back.

“Ain’t here for that.” Pushing the door wide open to let another man inside, he added, “This scum claims to be a friend of yours.”

Myron left, but Katarina’s gaze followed only the long strides that the stranger in front her took in order to hand her a letter. With a frown, she opened it, all the while studying the young man’s face. He seemed to be at least five to ten years younger than her. His bright blue eyes were a feature she had never seen before, not in Bilgewater, and his black, military-trimmed hair suggested he was not of common blood. His posture alone made it clear that he had been taught manners, even etiquette, perhaps.

“Your name?” she asked, her voice raspy.

“Jory Spiritmight,” he answered almost proudly. “Please read the message and I will leave.”

She raised her eyebrows at him, studying the handwriting on the unfolded piece of paper. The letters were properly drawn and the calligraphy reminded her of her father’s, except this one seemed to have not been written as quickly as her father used to dish out orders. She could see that the quill pen had stopped several times between syllables, drops of ink tainting the paper here and there.

_To the Bilgewater Assassin who mauled one of my best fighters,_

_I will allow you to explain your actions and expose your motivations only once._

_We will meet each other at tonight’s inauguration of the Abigale Fortune’s School of Firearm Crafting. Spiritmight will leave a bag containing a hundred golden krakens for you to use in order to dress properly for the occasion._

_Regards,_

_Admiral Garen Crownguard_

As if on cue, the young man in front of her handed her a small yet heavy pouch.

“Miss,” he said with a bow before leaving just as quickly as he came in.

Katarina stood in place, blinking back and forth between the money and the letter. She needed a drink.

She had the money anyway.


	2. Out of Nowhere

**Chapter Two: Out of Nowhere**

The Crowned Deceit was filled with alarming shrieks and loud groans. The large ship was a of pristine, blonde wood color. The head and the hull, as well as the main mast were made of silver while the figurehead – the massive head of an azurite lion – was of a cold, white stone color. It was made of fossilized petricite trees and mixed with ash, lime and wood to keep the magical sea monsters away from the ship. The beauty of fifty cannons were mounted and the flapping, deep blue flag that identified The Crowned Deceit showcased a broadsword with another petricite-colored feline carved on its hilt and a winged, four-legged helmeted beast on each side.

In one of the windowless cabins between the admiral’s private chambers and the hull, Quinn pushed away the little furry creature that was trying to feed her. The scout glared at the small yordle with her good eye, only to turn around in her hammock and cover her ears with her hands. Valor’s shrieks were slowly getting on her nerves but the bird wouldn’t stop, probably sensing her pain and anger.

“Quinn, you have to eat something,” the yordle whispered, pushing the spoon towards her.

“Let me be, Poppy.”

The yordle’s yellow eyes glanced behind her, where their admiral stood in silence. The little being pushed away the ruby bangs clinging on her forehead, her ponytails wagging as she walked towards him. Wearing his signature open coat, the leader of The Crowned Deceit watched with a stern look on his clean-shaven face. He rested his left hand on the pommel of his broadsword, its jagged, copper-colored guard shining under the sunrays that found their way through the cracks in the wood. The deep blue of his cloak-like coat clashed with the dirty brown of his trousers and boots, but was highlighted by the massive, silversteel pauldrons attached to his shoulders, the right one shaped in the form of a fanged, bloodthirsty sea beast. Poppy wiped her four-fingered hands on her rugged clothes, fixing her rusty armor and helmet right after, as if to appear presentable.

“Great Admiral Garen,” she spoke softly, “I’m afraid this will require more than we thought.”

“All in due time.” Running a gloved hand through his short, silver hair, Garen added, “You should go back to your work, Blacksmith. Our ranger will need a new weapon.”

“Oh, please,” they heard Quinn mutter. “As if that was a feasible thing.”

Poppy ignored the complaint, leaving the crew’s shared cabin to return to her atelier. Admiral Garen took a few strides towards her, leaning on the closest wall. “I am not worried about that at all. I myself lost part of my eyesight, and here I am. It is the pain that concerns me; you refused the honeyfruit juice.”

An angry yet teary honey eye peered at him. “I was the best ranger in Uwendale, when we still obeyed to Demacia’s rules,” she reminded him. “Your aunt Tianna Crownguard made me a ranger-knight of Demacia. How can you explain that I lost an eye to a one-man ambush?” she argued fierily. “How can I scout ahead and be your sharpshooter with _one eye_?” she emphasized before she ran out of breath.

Removing the black eyepatch over his right eye, Garen stared at her with one bright blue eye and a duller, almost glassy one. “Over time, your eyesight will adjust. Your peripheral vision will be lacking, I am not denying that, but your other senses will catch up. It is called survival’s instinct,” he spoke in an almost soft voice. “You and I have a lot in common, Quinn. You lost a brother; I lost a sister. Now this.” Turning heels and readjusting his eyepatch, he ordered, “Never speak to me again as if I didn’t know what you are going through. After the Fall of The Lightshields, I had nobody to help me stand up. You have all of us. You have Valor. He is your eyes. Use them.”

Quinn watched with her mouth agape as he left her meditate on his words, her saddened stare landing on the tray full of food that Poppy the Blacksmith had left for her.

*******

“I fail to understand your point,” T.F. sighed out as he adjusted his long, sleeveless emerald coat. “All I’m saying is, you sure fucked up with the approach; she could have killed us both on the spot.”

T.F. stared at himself in the mirror in front of him, only to realize his torn, red shirt had a hole where his sleeve met his grey gloves. Tightening the fabric enough to make a knot and hide the hole, the green-eyed man freed his long brown hair from his hat, which he left on his bed at MacGregan’s inn, just a couple lairs away from the famous killhouse.

“Damn,” he commented. “I still fit in my old clothes, Mal’.” Running the palms of his hands on the sides of his head, he added. “Sleek.”

Graves clicked his tongue, spitting the wet tobacco that had collected in his mouth after leaving his cigar between his lips for too long. “Why wouldn’t they fit?” he retorted. “You barely eat anything, dumb son.” Rearranging his pauldrons over his own sleeveless jacket, Graves glanced at his double barrel gun, Destiny. The old one surely was bigger and heavier, he thought to himself. Fixing the ammunitions between his red jacket and his bare chest, the dark-haired man eventually replied, “Also, I didn’t know she had so many daggers on her, alright? I was just joking.”

T.F. threw him a red bandana with Graves’ personal crest pinned in the middle, but the older man just frowned at it. Silence settled between the two old friends, and Graves removed the cigar from his mouth. Big, dirty fingers traced the round crest that bore his profile and with a scoff, he returned the piece of fabric.

“Malcolm.”

“No,” he interrupted him.

“Look, when you lost it during your—when you were taken,” T.F. corrected himself, “I picked it up on the spot. I kept it always with me and I figured that this is the right time for you to use it.”

“Fuck your pretty memories, Tobias,” Graves spat, shoving the younger man using only two fingers. “Do you know what they did to me in the Locker of Piltover? Huh? You son of a gun,” he cursed. “They tortured me for years because _you_ ran away. I lost a few toes and a few teeth; I was covered in my own feces, I had to drink my own piss when they didn’t give me water for weeks.” Licking his lips and brushing his moustache, he accused T.F., “And now you tell me that you—what? Missed me or something?”

“Hey,” T.F. interjected, pushing Graves away with two hands when the man began walking towards him menacingly. “Fuck you too, you ungrateful bastard. I thought this mattered to you,” he yelled before throwing the bandana in the fire that burned in the fireplace to their right. “I thought we had moved on from that accident. I don’t know how many times I will have to tell you that I didn’t want to leave you there. I had—”

“Yeah, yeah, you had to,” Graves concluded for him, reaching for a match in his pockets to light his cigar. “Just—” he paused, raising one hand. “Just let’s get the job done. We dressed up to avoid being recognized too fast by Missy Fortune out there, so let’s do whatever we have to do.”

T.F. nodded at that, and walked towards the door. “I’ll take care of the purses.”

“I’ll take care of them throats.”

The pair swaggered to the freshly built Abigale Fortune’s School of Firearm Crafting in a comfortable silence. The inauguration had been an event talked about for several months, as many citizens of Bilgewater were eager to see who Captain Sarah Fortune would appoint to the school named after her mother. New laws were bound to be dictated as well since a school of firearm crafting meant that those firearms not recognized by the leader’s officials would become illegal. It meant good business for the likes of those who still hunted down Fortune’s enemies, and bad business for whoever stayed in Bilgewater for its chaos, anarchy and utter freedom.

The school stood proudly between the Butcher’s Bridge and the inner streets of Rat Town that would lead to the other major bridge of the settlement, the one that brought the superstitious souls of Bilgewater to the Temple of the Mother Serpent, Nagakabouros. The building was like no other in Bilgewater. Its many columns and pointed roofs reminded any seasoned traveler of the Demacian columns and Piltoveran institutes but the architecture still lacked the majesty of the West, as well as the technology of the North. The black stone of every wall seemed tainted with gunpowder and over the balcony of the second floor, the flag of the unforgiving ruler of Bilgewater was hung. The twin guns that shielded Nagakabouros’ tentacles were the perfect replica of those that were safely tucked at Captain Fortune’s sides.

When T.F. and Graves arrived at the location, the Captain seemed to be in the middle of her speech. Her fiery red hair was neatly braided and from her feathery had to the silver and golden pauldrons of her formal attire, it was clear that she was prepared for any form of rebellion. T.F.’s green eyes scanned the area, but amongst the crowd filled with scoundrels of the slums and pirate lords of the Bilgewater heights, he saw no Noxian assassin.

“This is weird, in her message she said she would be here by eight o’clock,” he whispered to his companion.

“Tobias,” Graves called him in a hushed tone, tugging his elbow.

He nodded ahead of them.

Walking towards the stage where Captain Fortune spoke to the masses, Admiral Garen and three other men caught the attention of everyone who had them in their sights. Word traveled fast in Bilgewater and between the possible treasures on board and the mystery that surrounded his ship, the admiral was on everybody’s lips. Graves studied the people escorting him with attention. One seemed young and military trained, armor covering him from head to toe. The two others behind him however… The tallest had glinting blue eyes that shone through the menacing helmet he was wearing – or was it a helmet? Graves wasn’t so sure. The upside-down triangular shape of it and the horns it had on the sides were uncommon. The man obviously carried a weapon on his back, given the shape of the cloak that covered his upper body and part of his legs. Right next to him, an unnaturally tall and large man hid underneath layers and layers of fabric, blue light emanating from the hood that hid his face. Graves had heard of giants in the remote lands of the Freljord before, but this one seemed to be even bigger than the creatures that explorers went on about after one too many drinks.

“Well, well, Katarina,” T.F. commented. “She sure was fast and found their whereabouts quickly.”

“That’s not how the story went,” a female voice replied behind him.

Jumping slightly, the duo turned around and found a very formal, almost noble person glaring at them with her dark forest eyes.

“You can’t just appear out of nowhere, lassie,” Graves told her, unamused. “Thought we had a deal.”

“Listen, degenerate,” Katarina cut in right away, “them being here means that there are less important people on the ship. I doubt anybody would even notice you two, since I blinded their scout last night.”

Staring at her corseted, crimson dress that reached her thighs before completely splitting in two and revealing her toned legs and high, black boots, T.F. arched an eyebrow. “So, you had a little fun and treated yourself with some new wardrobe?”

Narrowing her eyes, Katarina retorted, “Are you seriously here to waste my time now?” At the sight of them glancing at each other before heading back to the bay, she added, “And don’t try running with the loot. I will find you, and it won’t be pretty, if you do.”

Katarina fixed her charcoal gloves that were threatening to slide down from her elbows. She wasn’t used to corsets anymore, and it was a little difficult to breathe correctly. Her twin blades were nestled against her back, properly hidden underneath the large and thick silver fairy wings strapped to the back of her dress. Her midnight hair was braided into a crown that sat on top of her head and, mindful of the glances directed at her, she kept her composure as she approached the one who had summoned her there.

Feeling slightly out of place with the attire she had chosen, she tried to convince herself that she fitted in the side of the crowd that was full of Bilgewater’s finest faction leaders. They had dressed up themselves to applaud – or sneer – at Captain’s Fortune political victory. The captain was mentioning her mother’s craftmanship when Katarina’s bare shoulder purposefully brushed against Admiral Garen Crownguard’s sleeve. She watched him from the corner of her eyes, noting the cross-shaped scar over his chiseled chest, right where his heart was.

“That’s an interesting dress,” she heard him speak, his stare never leaving Captain Fortune. “The style you chose makes me think that you are not just another sewer rat.”

Katarina realized how little patience she actually had. “I’m glad you think of me in ways I’d never think about you, Admiral Crownguard,” she replied with wit and sarcasm.

Garen slowly turned to face her, his stare serious and his square jaw locked to one side. It wasn’t until he completely blocked the rays of the setting sun from touching her skin that she fully registered how large he was. Katarina felt her heartrate increase and her breathing deepening, a feeling she had felt only during the Noxian campaigns her father sent her to. Her blood was boiling and the scar on his bare chest sent thoughts of piercing daggers in her brain, awakening a thirst she didn’t know she still had. What a sweet treat his death would be, she thought.

“You hurt a good friend of mine,” he reminded her. “May I at least know the name you go by?”

“Katarina,” she automatically replied. “Katarina of Bilgewater.”

A loud explosion caused the entire crowd to shout and almost take cover, but as the drums of the Buhru signaled the beginning of the feast, Captain’s Fortune’s audience realized it was only the cannons on top of the school firing at the skies. Music filled the square that was quickly invaded by inviting smells and loud clinking of chalices and rusty glasses. The noise became louder and louder, but Katarina stood in place the entire time, her glare never leaving Garen’s face, who was even more stoic. Reaching out, he offered her a gloved hand.

“Will you walk with me, Katarina of Bilgewater?”

Raising her own hand to signal she wouldn’t take his, she conceded him a walk nonetheless. “You should try Bilgewater’s black rum,” she advised him. “Over there,” she guided him, walking towards the nearest buffet.

*******

Running at a fast pace in the direction of the docks, T.F. and Graves kept their eyes on the still flag of The Crowned Deceit. It was a moonless, windless night, and it was exactly what they needed. Wasting no more time, the two came to a halt and crouched behind a pile of scattered, empty ale barrels and other dirt left there by the sea hunters. Graves readied his shotgun, eyeing the azurite eagle that was perched on top of the crow’s nest of the ship.

Reaching behind him for the deck attached to his belt, T.F. exchanged a look with Graves. “No fightin’ Destiny,” he said with a smirk.

Shuffling the cards in his hands, T.F. was soon engulfed by a glowing, red light, and his own eyes lost their natural glint to be replaced by translucent hues. He was gone in less than a second, and Graves raised an eyebrow and tilted his head to the side with a chuckle. Standing up, he dashed past the barrels and ran towards the ship, his own Destiny firing at the eagle that had just left its spot, alerted by the sound of T.F.’s teleport.

“End of the line,” he sneered, sending a thundering shell that exploded on the deck as Valor descended from its perch.

The eagle shrieked and fell with a loud thud, its right wing badly damaged. Inside the crew’s cabin, Quinn jumped from her hammock, her head reeling at the sudden movement and the sharp pain in her skull never relenting. She held the right side of her face with her hand, her forehead sweaty and her heart beating fast.

“Valor?” she called, leaning against the wall for every step she took. She wished she had eaten that soup earlier; she felt so weak. She had almost reached the door when she spotted blood trailing down the wall she leaned on, droplets making their way through the cracks and the little holes in the wood. “Valor!” she screamed, panicking.

The sound of flipping cards had her jump instantly. Quinn turned around, resting her back against cold, bloodied wooden walls, staring in both confusion and anxiety at the man who had just appeared in the middle of the room. The two studied each other briefly, until T.F. straightened his back and shuffled his magical deck.

“All alone aren’t we,” he whispered. “Are you going to play nice and show me where you keep the loot of your plundering?” he asked her, lifting his chin a bit.

Quinn swallowed hard, her throat dry. Her eyes were fixed on the other door behind the intruder.

“Don’t try lying to me; I saw there is only you here and a sleeping rat.”

“Behind you,” Quinn croaked out. When the brown-haired man narrowed his eyes at her, she repeated, “It’s behind you.”

“Wh—”

T.F. didn’t have the time to fully turn around. The second he moved, a heavy, metallic object nestled itself in his face, smashing his nose and bringing him to his knees. He spat a few teeth, and all he saw before passing out completely was one rusty hammer and two bright ponytails. Above their heads, Valor crawled its way to the entrance of the quarters, but the floor promptly vibrated as Graves jumped on board, having heard the echoing sound of metal and several cries. While he reloaded his shotgun, the bearded outlaw scanned ever corner to make sure no one was about to corner him. Where he figured the crew’s cabin was, no more sounds could be heard.

“Damn it,” he cursed while catching his breath. “I will kill you, Tobias, if they haven’t already.”

Hurrying himself towards the cabin, rushing past the bird that was either dead or unconscious, Graves peered through the round window on the door. T.F. was lying on the floor, covered in his own blood and he seemed to have passed out. Graves licked his lips before biting his tongue. He couldn’t simply walk in there, he figured. He had to locate the loot first, then perhaps he could drag Tobias out of there. That is, if he managed to secure the heist before the admiral and his shady men showed up. Graves wasn’t sure how Katarina planned on keeping them busy throughout the night, and quite frankly, it was not his main concern at that moment. Deciding to rely on the little information he had, the former cutthroat reminded himself that with the bird out and the scout half blind, the odds of a ranged attack were low. Furthermore, T.F. wouldn’t have gone in so quickly had he identified potential threats upon summoning Destiny’s Eye.

“Ah, fuck it.”

Graves pushed the door open. He was going to get T.F. out of there and then figure out a better plan. At this point, even sabotaging the sails to gain some time sounded better than roaming the ship on his own.

“What the—”

A quick, faster-than-a-blink push sent him flying backwards and into the main mast.

“Outta my way!” a high-pitched, angry voice roared at him.

Graves felt the air leave his lungs completely. Falling on his knees, he gasped, trying to force himself upwards only to feel the head of hammer punch his forehead and his world faded to black.

*******

The merry sounds of violins and accordions set the pace of the celebrations at the School of Firearm Crafting. Katarina twirled her almost empty glass of black rum, leaning against one of the entrance columns. She watched with captivated eyes the way the admiral walked towards her. He seemed to be examining the contents of his mug, ignoring his surroundings altogether. It was probably ale from the Brazen Hydra, Katarina mused. That tavern in particular was known for ale that was as good as it stank.

Between the main buffet and the many stands that offered refreshment, the official guests mixed with the citizens of Bilgewater, engaging in heated conversations, occasional brawls and heavy gambling. For a moment, Katarina was reminded of the Ivory Ward marketplace in Noxus Prime and the many nights she would spend there, ready to throw herself in the next fight until she was called at the less intense Immortal Bastion, only to take orders from either her father or Grand General Swain.

“All this drinking could have taken place in a much more comfortable setting,” Katarina pointed out, shifting her weight on her other leg. “Let’s get straight to the point.”

Garen seemed almost amused. “Unless you can hold my beer while I slice you in two, I don’t think we will get straight to the point.”

“Cocky, aren’t we,” Katarina scoffed. “As if you could catch me.”

“I am not here for banter,” the silver-haired pirate cut her act short. “I wanted to see in person the one who assaulted Quinn, and now I need to know why.”

Her eyeroll was not something he expected.

“My guess is,” Garen wondered out loud, setting the mug on the floor with care, “you wanted to rob me, so you needed more information on my ship but Quinn wasn’t easy to break. Am I right?” he asked, his piercing stare trapping hers.

“I wasn’t even trying to,” she hissed, leaning forward.

“But am I right, Katarina?” He grabbed her left wrist, his large hand squeezing her small limb with no effort. “What absurd sum of money were you after, to blind someone who had done nothing to you?” he went on, his tone deepening in a mixture of anger and curiosity. “What is the reward you were promised?”

Her pine eyes shone brightly, turning a vivid green. “I don’t do promises.”

Before Garen could keep interrogating her, a whistling sound burst from the skies and a devastating hit scattered the crowd. Heavy bombarding targeted Abigale Fortune’s School of Firearm Crafting, demolishing the roof and turning the tall columns into pebbles. The people of Bilgewater screamed and stumbled over benches and tables, pushing each other away to try and get out, only to be met with fire. The carnage ravaged even the bridge that connected Rat Town to the Buhru Temple, and from a distance, Sarah Fortune could be heard as she gave orders to take cover, aiming her twin guns at the nothingness above her, unable to see her attacker. These were not the cannons on the roof of the building.

“Duck!” Garen yelled in Katarina’s face, pushing her forward.

Katarina could see the stairs that were about to collide with her face and in a desperate attempt, she reached for her blades at the back of her corset, kneeing the admiral in the chest as she slipped from his grasp. She pulled and her jagged weapons broke free, slashing through the decorative wings of her dress. Katarina blinked away, watching as Garen rolled down the stairs, successfully avoiding the next bombardment.

Landing swiftly on her feet, Katarina glanced down at her blades and back at the disoriented admiral just a few feet beneath her. This was her chance.

She leaped at him with pointed daggers and no second thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, thank you so much for the kudos and lovely comments. I didn't expect them at all. Hope you enjoyed this chapter as well <3


	3. Brig or Treat

**Chapter Three: Brig or Treat**

The deafening laughter that echoed through the skies had Miss Fortune’s guests widen their eyes and stare in shock at the one man they all thought to be dead. He stood tall on the roof of the newly built school, the cannon barrage he had unleashed upon the inhabitants wrapping around him like a revengeful aura. His lips tinned into a grim smile as he witnessed civilians and hunters alike succumb to his attack, his tiny amber eyes sparkling with each wave that wiped out the scene beneath him. His crimson coat lined with gold and shadowed by his large hat made him look like he had been to the Void and back only to finish what Sarah Fortune hadn’t let him on Runeterra.

Scanning the scattering crowd until he found the red-haired captain that was being shielded and dragged around by a dark-skinned man, Gangplank whispered, “Cannons will sing ‘em to sleep.” Jumping off, the previous ruler of Bilgewater landed swiftly on his feet in front of the entrance of the building, using his metallic, left arm to brace himself when he dropped to his knees.

His eyes still followed the red braid that disappeared in the crowd, followed by her loyal men, and as he stood up, he nearly collided with a body who was twice his size, if not more. Gangplank narrowed his eyes at the figure before him and the upside-down, triangular shape of their helm, or face, he wasn’t sure. The man unsheathed the incredibly large weapon strapped against his back, and brandished it in front of the old captain. Gangplank studied the jagged blades that formed the sword and the way they circled around a sharp, cutting pool of red matter. Something moved underneath the man’s cape.

“What are you?” Gangplank hissed, reading the pistol in his right hand.

The sneer that escaped his opponent’s lips as his eyes were filled with blue light was his only warning before the blade came crashing down.

*******

Katarina’s daggers were about to meet the admiral’s exposed back when Garen recollected himself, unsheathing his broadsword to parry her move with a force that sent her rolling backwards, her body hitting the bottom of the stairs as she recoiled like a Noxian bombard. Pine eyes blinked a couple times before she sat up, her glare directed at the silver-haired man.

“Would you endanger a whole city just to collect a bounty?” Garen asked with an arched eyebrow, standing up with ease. His muscles rippled under his skin with every movement.

“I have nothing to do with this,” Katarina quickly replied, standing up herself and slashing away the length of her skirt to move freely. A hand unbuttoned the lower part of her corset, leaving her with only a bust piece to hold her breasts and a short, tight skirt ripped at the sides. “But I sure don’t mind,” she concluded, blinking behind him.

Garen didn’t expect the sharp pain that hit his back. He figured this was how the woman had gotten to Quinn. Swinging his broadsword around, he came in contact with nothing but air. Katarina had ducked between his legs, and the feeling of steel cutting through his side was a clear indication that she was too fast for him. His gloved hand reached out for his wound, and the sight of his blood filled him with an anger that had his ears ringing.

Katarina stood in front of him with a sly smirk on her lips, as if she reveled in the anticipation of his death. Garen’s blue eyes took in his surroundings; the entire plaza was on fire, blood coated the streets, and screams erupted from every corner. Resident buildings around them had not been spared either, and he swore he could hear the distinct cries of an infant. He saw Jory Spiritmight clear the way by shoving his spear down unknown foes’ throats, securing a path for all the untrained inhabitants of the city port. The other two crewmembers who had escorted him weren’t in sight, but he couldn’t waste too much time thinking; Katarina was running towards him.

The admiral raised his sword in order to parry her blow, but instead, the raven-haired woman jumped in mid-air, swinging her leg around to kick him right in the jaw. Garen stumbled backwards, and another deft move had her plant her heel in his stomach. Garen blinked at her, coughing and choking on saliva as he tried to regain control of his breathing. Katarina straddled his chest, twirling a curved blade in her right hand, ready to end him. All his blue eyes could see was the uttermost satisfaction and cruelty that shone in her eyes, as if he wasn’t human, as if his life didn’t matter. Her lips curved up slowly and Garen furrowed his brow, moving his hand to hold her wrist in place. This wasn’t a job to her, he realized when she paid no attention to his actions, her dark stare focusing solely on his neck. This was passion; drawing other people’s blood.

The ground quaked underneath them, and Katarina nearly dropped her dagger, if it wasn’t for Garen’s firm grip on her. Their eyes met for a brief second, and the assassin remained confused at the admiral’s lack of fear and shock. His other hand had sneaked its way up her neck, but as she parted her lips to speak, a cannon shot right above their heads, blasting the abandoned buffet table next to them, and Katarina squeezed her eyes shut to avoid having splinters poke her eyes out.

Thorny brambles crawled out from the ground with the next quake, and she gasped out loud as she was trapped in place, unable to move. Her green eyes stared at the creature that had just tried to shoot her, only to find a treant with what looked like a cannon mounted on its back and shiny golden orbs staring at her. Its mouth was widely open, an equally golden hue escaping from it. It was one of the three people that had accompanied Admiral Crownguard, she realized.

The sapling toss had been enough of a distraction for Garen, and he promptly squeezed his hand around the woman’s neck. “I apologize,” he whispered against her ear, leaning in until his nose grazed the skin of her cheek.

Katarina felt the air leave her lungs, her strength leave her body, and she relinquished her hold on her dagger before passing out against the admiral’s chest. The thorns that had kept them still quickly dissolved, and Garen threw the unconscious woman over his shoulder, his arm locked around her waist as he hastily left the battlefield. With chaos erupting in Bilgewater, he couldn’t leave his ship at the harbor, he told himself.

*******

She felt cold.

It was the first thought that swam through her mind as she realized that she was sitting, her wrists neatly tied behind her back around what felt like a large, wooden pole. Her head was throbbing with pain and the damp floor under her legs felt dirty.

“Let me kill her,” she heard a woman say.

“That is not your call,” a deeper, almost inhuman voice replied.

“Why else would he bring her here?”

“We didn’t get our hands on the first two, so we won’t on this one either,” a tinier, childish-like voice butted in.

Katarina forced her eyes open. Someone had opened a door, or closed it, because the resounding slam caused her to jump. Her throat was hurting. She needed a glass of rum. Her vision was foggy, but the large boots that were stepping closer to her were dirty with mud and blood. Glancing up, she met the stoic stare of Admiral Crownguard, whose side was sloppily bandaged. Katarina ran her tongue over her dry lips, failing to roll her shoulders. She had no idea how long she had been out, but she could feel the cramps in her arms and even her backside was hurting from the awkward sitting position.

As she tried to keep her eyelids open, Katarina noted the other pairs of eyes that were staring down at her. The scout she had partially blinded sat on a wooden box with her arms hugging her bent leg, her other limb dangling off the floor. A yordle stood next to her, sitting on a black hammer that was bigger than her, her red ponytails tickling her small back. Behind Garen, a man with dark grey skin and equally dark wings leaned against the nearest wall, his fingers drumming against the hilt of his sword.

She was on their ship, she realized, and if they were all unharmed, that meant that Graves and T.F. had either failed or run away with the loot before Garen captured her.

“You’re awake, Lady Du Couteau,” Garen Crownguard commented dryly.

“How—” Katarina spit bile. “How do you know?” she rasped.

She felt twin movements on both her sides, and two heads leaned in towards her. “Sorry, Miss,” T.F.’s awkward tone reached her ears.

“We didn’t want to, but they took our weapons,” Graves added next to her.

They had been restrained together, Katarina realized in silence. It explained why her arms hurt so much; they hadn’t been holding only her weight. Green eyes glared at the duo who got her in this predicament in the first place, noting how their faces were bruised and turning different shades of purple. T.F. was missing a couple teeth, and Graves’ eyes were so swollen from the beating he had received she was ready to bet that he’d lose his eyesight.

The gambler’s stare quickly caught an eye of her scantily clad form, and Katarina hissed, “What are you staring at?”

“What happened to your dress?” Directing his glance to the man who towered over them, the mouthy man accused him, “That’s no way to treat a lady.”

The Great Admiral ignored him. “Poppy,” he told the yordle, “untie Lady Du Couteau and make her presentable,” he ordered.

His voice grated on her nerves. “Don’t call me that,” Katarina bellowed.

The little female yordle sauntered her way to her, but the assassin’s glare was still focused on the silver-haired man who let no emotion surface from his deep thoughts. She felt the rope scratch her skin as it loosened and Poppy tugged at it, causing Katarina to wince. A part of her wanted to shove the yordle’s face into the floor, and kick the admiral right in the jaw, but there was no way to escape afterwards; neither she nor the duo behind her had their weapons, and the man who stood next to the door didn’t seem to be playing by the same rules as them. He was not human, and the way his sword shone in the shadowed corner made her think twice about her actions.

Katarina took a few steps forward, following the ponytailed yordle, only to stumble when her weakened and dehydrated body couldn’t hold her up. Garen’s gloved hand was on her arm in a heartbeat, tugging her up like a parent teaching their child how to walk.

“Stand up,” he coldly ordered her.

Summoning all the willpower she had, Katarina tightened the muscles of her legs and tucked her tummy to try and not faceplant on the floor the moment he let go of her. She felt like her bones had been broken, and if that was true, she wouldn’t be too surprised. The treant that had curled its thorns around her body had meant to keep her away from the admiral, ready to end her if necessary.

Poppy had just jumped to the door knob to open it when the creature next to it spoke. “What about the other two, Great Admiral?”

Katarina heard Graves and T.F. fumble with words that were quickly ignored.

“Feed them,” Garen spoke without turning around. “Feed them and let them rest in separate spots. We will sail tomorrow after sunset.” The silence that cluttered around him was a clear indication that no one expected his mercy. Turning heels and walking past Katarina, Garen added, “We can use the extra arms.”

She didn’t believe it. Katarina leaned against the doorframe, only to be tugged forward by the yordle who held her wrist. “This way, miss.”

Katarina followed the little furry creature through a narrow corridor that was mostly empty, save for a few rags scattered on the floor. Poppy pushed the last door on the right open, holding it to let the weakened woman inside. Green eyes glanced at what seemed to be a washroom, a small hole on the floor peeking at the sea. It was surprisingly clean, she noted, hugging herself when a chill breeze grazed her skin. A tiny, round window had been left open. Poppy nudged a couple buckets next to her, handing her a yellowish soap bar and a bowl full of salt crystals.

“I shall leave you to your business,” the yordle said, placing the soap bar on the wooden floor when Katarina didn’t take it. “Unless you need help,” she added, eyeing the shaking ankles of the woman who crouched.

“Leave, little woman,” Katarina whispered.

Poppy rolled her big yellow eyes. “You need new clothes. We can’t have you walk around in undergarments. You’ll catch pneumonia the moment we sail.”

She didn’t expect Katarina’s dry laugh. “I don’t know what makes you think I’m staying. The moment I get my hands on—”

“On your blades?” Poppy cut in, splashing a good amount of water on Katarina’s body, earning a distinct yelp from the prisoner. “Please, the water is not even cold. It sat under the sun for the entire day,” she chirped. Grabbing the soap bar, the yordle yanked Katarina’s dark locks towards her and began scrubbing her scalp, occasionally adding some salt to prevent the soap from sticking to her hair too much. “Your daggers and blades are safely stored and without them, I doubt you can get past Great Admiral Crownguard,” she explained plainly. “I can see you are well-trained, you have very toned muscles, but that’s all you have against, well, the entire crew.”

Katarina wanted to push the small being away, but her body ached and the water had felt nice. She was even beginning to feel hungry. “Why are you even keeping me?” she asked, annoyance filling her voice. She had tried to kill their admiral; if anything, they should have killed her in return, not captured her.

Poppy shrugged, an amused smile on her plump lips. “Admiral’s orders. I don’t know why you get the special treatment compared to your accomplices; perhaps, he would like to bed you—” Seeing Katarina’s disgusted expression, she laughed. “Or he would like to offer you a deal in exchange of your combat abilities. I honestly don’t know, but enjoy the fresh wash while you can,” she advised her, moving to soap up Katarina’s back. “We won’t waste water while at sea.”

Katarina’s dark green eyes peered at the yordle who scrubbed her skin and her hand gently came to rest on Poppy’s wrist. “I can finish up on my own,” she said in a neutral tone, grabbing the soap bar and kneeling down.

The yordle silently exited the washroom, and Katarina reached out for the bucket of water to rinse the soap off her upper body before she began working on her legs and intimate parts. She watched as the water ran down the slopes of the floor and poured outside as it escaped the head. She figured she would relieve herself before washing herself completely.

Katarina stood up shortly after she was done, twisting her long hair and wringing it like a piece of clothing to get rid of the extra water. More dye had come off due to Poppy’s harsh scrubbing of her scalp, and her locks seemed more mahogany than black. Katarina let out a small sigh, her eyes scanning her surroundings as she waited for the yordle to return. The washroom was not as dirty as on the other ships she had boarded, but it wasn’t surprising given the small crew of the admiral. And if Poppy scrubbed the floor the way she had scrubbed her skin, it was no wonder that everything around her turned out to be rather clean.

There was a soft knock on the door, followed by a small, “It’s still me.” Poppy didn’t enter though, and threw the clean clothes on the floor before closing the door again. Katarina tiptoed closer, picking up what looked like plain, black britches and a white shirt. She was even allowed to wear a brown jacket made of leather. Scrunching her nose and wondering whose clothes these had been, she slipped into them and grabbed the heeled boots she had previously discarded. Her bust piece and torn skirt remained on the floor. The dark-haired woman wasn’t sure where to throw them.

As she opened the door, she didn’t expect to run into the admiral and collide with his chest. The muscles in her body instantly tightened and she reached behind her on instinct, cursing under her breath as she remembered that he had taken her weapons. Garen Crownguard raised a thick eyebrow at her, his blue eye staring down at her in curiosity. Katarina realized that he had been standing behind the door for a little while since Poppy hadn’t fully opened the door when she brought her clothes.

“Lady Du Couteau, if you’ll follow me.”

“I said stop calling me that,” she growled.

Ignoring her command, the admiral turned heels, leading her towards the stairs. Katarina followed him begrudgingly, with her arms crossed under her breasts. They climbed past the galley, and she knew what that meant. They were headed towards the Great Cabin, the Captain’s Cabin, and she felt her stomach churn as she recalled Poppy’s words. A part of her wondered if the man in the deep blue coat truly believed she would yield so easily. She didn’t need blades to bite off his testicles if he ever so dared touching her.

Garen pulled the door to his cabin open, standing aside with his arms behind his back to let her walk in first. Katarina glared at him in silence, stepping in a rather sober Great Cabin. Aside from the velvety indigo rug that covered nearly the entire floor, there was nothing special about his private room. A round table had been placed at the center, a few wooden chairs scattered around it. Candleholders had been placed on both the table and the tall dresser, and a massive bed with plain white sheets waited at the far end of the room. Katarina stood still near the table, quietly glancing at the man who locked the door behind him.

“Poppy will bring you supper soon,” he told her as he walked up to her.

Katarina’s left eye narrowed, her scar becoming more visible as she did so. “You’re in for a lot of pain if you think I will lay with you,” she threatened him, only to realize that her words didn’t exactly sound as menacing as she intended.

Garen lifted both eyebrows at her, suppressing the urge to smile in amusement. “There must be a misunderstanding, Lady Du Couteau.”

“Stop—”

“Don’t get me wrong, you are a beautiful woman,” he went on, ignoring her request once more. “But I would like you to join my crew, not become my mistress. Where we are headed, we need seasoned fighters, and you proved to be quite the challenge,” he admitted, his eyes boring into hers for the entire duration of his speech.

She was taken aback. Shifting her weight on her right leg, Katarina chewed on the inside of her cheek as she pondered his offer. “What if I don’t want to?”

Garen pretended to be in deep thought for a moment, tapping his chin with his index finger, only to answer, “Then you can become my mistress.”

“Fuck you and your—”

Waving a hand at her, he interrupted the flow of curses that was about to fly from her lips. “You can scrub the docks and join your friends in the brig. I am not one to sentence people to death, Lady Du Couteau.

“It is true, you have harmed a person dear to me, but I reckon you were paid to or at least, you were promised a reward. It is not my place to judge how a person earns their own coin. Quinn is alive and you can redeem yourself the easy way or the hard way.”

“Look,” Katarina spoke up, taking a step closer to him, her breath tickling his bare chest. “First of all, these two down there aren’t my friends. Second of all, I don’t know you, I don’t know your crew and I don’t know where you are even headed. And quite frankly, I am not about to take orders from anyone,” she concluded. “Hand me my weapons and I’ll be on my way; this doesn’t have to end up badly.”

“For you, you mean.”

“No, for you,” Katarina sneered, shoving him. “You were flat on your back before that treant of yours nearly broke my bones. You’re not in any position to threaten me when you can’t even fight me.”

Garen grabbed the hand that had just pushed him away and forcefully tugged her closer, as if to assert the superiority of his physical strength. “That is why I value your fighting skills, Lady Du Couteau. Here’s what is going to happen,” he told her with a lower voice, his face inching closer to hers. “You are going to eat your supper, enjoy a good night’s sleep, and tell me your answer tomorrow.”

The moment he released her limb, Katarina rubbed it. The asshole had a firm grip, she would give him that, she inwardly told herself. “You’re not easily told no, aren’t you, Great Admiral?” she grunted at him to try and mask the loud rumble that erupted from her stomach the moment he mentioned food.

Garen offered her a genuine smile before he headed out of the cabin. “You addressed me properly,” he noted. “You are already learning.”

The door slammed shut behind him, and Katarina grabbed the first thing she found, an empty cup that had been left on the table, and threw it in his direction. Slumping on the chair behind her, Katarina let out a sigh, her fingers coming to pinch the bridge of her nose. She wasn’t going to take him up on his offer, she thought to herself. She hadn’t left the High Command only to follow someone else’s orders.

But as the smell of broth reached her nostrils and footsteps approached the admiral’s cabin, Katarina doubted that she was ready to meet T.F. and Graves down in the brig.


End file.
